


Borrowed Comfort

by fishpoets



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:55:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishpoets/pseuds/fishpoets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About a month after Castiel shows up at the bunker, newly human, Dean's old t-shirts start to go missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Borrowed Comfort

 

 

Dean has a few t-shirts that he likes to wear when he sleeps, ones that are age-soft and worn thin, and have never been soaked in blood and entrails, ruined by waking nightmares. Now that he has his own room and he's actually bothering to get undressed and sleep properly most nights, putting on one of those familiar shirts has become a comforting ritual.

 

Which is why he maybe overreacts - just a little - when they start to go missing.

 

The first disappears during his morning shower. When he leaves his room it's there on the chair where he threw it - it's gone when he gets back. He doesn't think much of it at the time - maybe Sam decided to do some early morning laundry, or something else Sam-ish and annoying.

 

But then the second one vanishes from between his bedsheets. A third, from his bag.

 

The fourth makes it as far as his washing pile but is nowhere to be found when he gets round to cleaning it. Dean takes to skulking round the bunker in protest, all sullen and suspicious. Sam, the bastard, just ignores him.

 

A week or so passes and he's down to his last, an old counterfeit Metallica shirt that he'd haggled for on the street after one of their gigs. The cheap print has long since all-but flaked off and there's a small hole in one of the armpits, but it's a memento of one of the best nights of his childhood - one of the few nights it actually felt like he _had_ a childhood – and though it had hung huge on his gangling teenage frame he'd worn that damn shirt for weeks afterward, and he's treasured it ever since.

 

If this one goes missing he's gonna Hulk-out.

 

He confronts his brother in the library.

 

Sam makes a face at him. "You look like someone peed in your cereal. What's wrong?"

 

Dean brandishes his precious last shirt accusingly. "You know damn well what's wrong, Sammy, and it's not funny."

 

"As usual, Dean, I have no idea what you're talking about." He bats the shirt away with his stupid, overgrown hand. "And get that smelly old thing outta my face."

 

Dean recoils, aghast. "It's not smelly!"

 

Sam snorts. "Trust me dude, it reeks. You've worn that so much that I think the smell's like, ingrained in the fibers. No matter how much you wash it, it still smells like you. And look, man, I'm sorry to have to say it to you, but..." He places said stupid, overgrown hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean scowls at it. "Unwashed you is not a good smell. So yeah, it stinks."

 

"Is that why you've been stealing my shirts, then? Cos they stink? Creepy, dude." Dean shrugs his brother's hand away. "You better not have gotten rid of them, or I swear-"

 

"Hold on, what?" Sam blinks. "Your clothes are going missing? Seriously, Dean, I haven't touched any of your stuff, I know how weird you get about it."

 

Dean ignores the jibe. "Yeah, my old t-shirts - the ones I sleep in. They've all disappeared, save this one," he examines the black fabric crumpled in his fist, "and if it's not you, then I dunno what to think."

 

When he looks up, Sam's wearing the face he gets when he's trying not to laugh. It looks like he's constipated.

 

"What?"

 

Sam smiles and shakes his head, clears his throat. "Nothing, nothing. It's just, ah... you know, maybe you should ask Cas. He might know something."

 

Dean eyes him suspiciously. _Cas?_

 

Cas had shown up again nearly a month ago, sitting on the bunker's doorsteps as they returned from a hunt. The swoop of relief Dean had felt on seeing him, hunched stiffly on the threshold and asking permission to enter, had so far outweighed his lingering resentments that he hadn't thought twice about dragging Cas inside by the sleeve of his coat.

 

Cas was weary, aching; still shocked and shaken from his rough landing though otherwise remarkably, blessedly alright. He was apologetic, if not a little grumpy. He was _himself_. Dean had wasted no time in settling him down into his own room, and though he hadn't said much Cas's gratitude had been carved all over his stony, dirt-lined face.

 

But Cas has been spending most of his time alone. Some days he's off exploring the woods on the hill out behind the bunker, and comes home with pockets full of stones and leaves and soil. Other days take him down the road into town. Dean isn't sure what he does, but he suspects Cas is looking out for signs of his fallen siblings. Still performing his self-imposed penance and, in his own way, trying to find some way to help them. Even when Cas is home he keeps to himself, squirreling books from the library into his room and holing up for hours. Dean would worry, but he thinks he understands – Cas has barely looked him in the eye since he showed up. If he needs some space, some time to process, Dean's willing to provide. He trusts that Cas will come to him, will talk to him, if there's anything he needs to know. He'll let Cas keep his privacy so long as he knows he's okay; and Cas has been - by the Winchester definition, which is very generous – _okay._ But he also hasn't really been around. So what would he know about Dean's shirts?

 

It's worth a shot, though, and so when he hears Cas arrive back home later that evening Dean sets his drink down, gets out of his chair and goes in search of his friend.

 

Cas's room is just down the hall from Dean's, so that's where he looks there first, and he's in luck – Cas is just coming out the door as Dean turns the corner into the corridor.

 

"Hey, Cas," he calls, walking up to him. "Haven't seen you today. How's things?"

 

Cas freezes, his hand still on the door handle. "They're... better," he says, tentatively. "I had a good walk; the lavenders were flowering and they smelled beautiful.” He fiddles a bit with his sleeve, poking his thumb through a fraying hole in the cuff. A new nervous – human – habit. “And I... met someone.”

 

Oh. Ominous. When it doesn't look like Cas is going to say any more, Dean leans into his space, tries to capture his gaze. “Met someone?” he prompts, ignoring the anxious, jealous twist of his guts. “What, like – a chick?”

 

Cas finally meets his eyes and squints at him. “No, an old man,” he says, as if Dean is stupid for imagining that Cas might bump into a girl who likes the look of him. Hell, it's happened before; only a matter of time until Cas finds his attention drawn to one of them in return. And when that day comes, well - Dean will just have to smile and be happy for them. He'll sweep away the stones and the leaves, the accumulated things that Cas finds beautiful, that have found a place lining the sills of the narrow kitchen windows. He'll throw it all back outside where he won't have to look at it, and he'll carry on, just like he's always done.

 

But that hasn't happened yet, and Cas is still talking. “His name was Albert,” he's saying. “He was sitting alone at a café and I was thirsty, so I asked if I could join him. He seemed very grateful to have company so I sat with him a while, and he told me stories about his daughter and his grandchildren. It was..." he trails off again and glances away, pausing as if gathering his words. "He felt such love for them. It was gratifying, being able to share that with him, even if only for a short time."

 

Dean must be going soft in his old age, because his heart clenches at the wistful little expression on Cas's face, the tiny, enigmatic smile. It makes him wish that he could make his friend look so delicately content all the time; makes him wish that an airless, cold, almost empty bedroom could be enough for a creature who resents the need to sleep. It makes him wish, secretly and quietly, that this, here, could be enough. That it could make up in any way for what Cas has lost. That the small, trembling thoughts Dean has in the dead of night, wondering about his lonely friend in the bare room down the hall, could ever be reciprocated.

 

But Dean's just a hopeless case, and Cas deserves more than his shame.

 

He clears his throat. "That's uh, that's great, Cas. You had a good day, then."

 

"I did." Cas tilts his head and frowns at him. "You're fidgeting. Was there something you wanted?"

 

"Right. Yeah, I uh - I have a question, actually. It's not really a big deal, and I still think Sam's messing with me, but he'd said I should ask you, so." Dean scratches at the stubble on his jaw, where it's itching. "Long story short, some of my shirts are going missing. And I know it's nothing supernatural cos this place is warded out the ass, so it's gotta be either you or Sam."

 

Dean's money had been on his brother giving him the run-around, even if it seemed unlikely, but Cas breaks their gaze as Dean is talking and hunches even further into himself than usual.

 

Dean pauses until Cas's eyes drift back to meet his own, then continues. "Sam's got a lot on his plate, and he's still healing from the trials – he's not really in the right state to be playing pranks. So I was wondering if you knew anything about it."

 

Cas glances at the door and shuffles a little on his feet. “I apologize,” he says quietly. “I didn't anticipate it would upset you.”

 

“Nah, man, I'm not upset, just... so you took them?”

 

Cas nods and opens his bedroom door, holding it wide as Dean follows him inside.

 

“I swear I'm not mad,” Dean begins, “but I gotta ask -” He catches sight of the bed. The sheets and pillows have been piled in the middle of of it, like a nest or the beginnings of a blanket fort. And there in the center, folded in amongst the covers, are his missing shirts.

 

They both stare at it a moment. Then Cas says, “It must seem strange to you.”

 

Dean rubs his palms on his jeans. “No, no, it's – well, it's kinda _weird_ , but... I just don't get _why_?”

 

“It's – they're-” Cas grimaces. “I find them comforting, I suppose,” he mutters, sounding resigned to his fate. “They're well-loved, and they smell like you. It's familiar. It gets – the _quiet,_ it's too much, sometimes, and I find the smell; something I know; having it around is... tethering. It feels nice, having that connection. Like I belong somewhere again.”

 

Dean gapes at him.

 

Cas fiddles with his cuff in embarrassment. “I've passed a boundary. I'm sorry if it's made you uncomfortable.”

 

Dean doesn't seem to be able to summon words. His heart feels like a V12 roaring in his throat. All he seems able to do is stand there stupefied, staring at the meager little pile on the bed. It just makes him feel so overwhelmingly _sad._

 

Cas misinterprets his silence and moves stiffly to the bed, starts plucking the shirts from the folds of his empty nest. He rolls them into a bundle and offers them awkwardly to Dean.

 

“If you'd like me to leave, I understand,” he says solemnly.

 

That breaks the vice around Dean's lungs. “No way, Cas,” he gasps, “no way. You can't-” he takes a steadying breath, rewrites what he was going to blurt out.

 

“You can't just take a man's possessions without asking, y'know?” he smiles, taking the bundle carefully from his friend. He lays a hand on Cas's arm. “But that doesn't mean I'm gonna turf you out, c'mon! Who do you think I am, huh?”

 

Cas smiles softly at him. “You're my friend.”

 

The engine roars back to life in Dean's chest. “Yeah,” he says, just as soft. “Yeah, that's right. Say, uh – how'd you like having your own room, anyway?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, you know, do you like it? Dislike it? How's it feel?”

 

“Oh. It's, um,” Cas glances around at the bare walls, the small pile of pebbles on the table, the chest of drawers with hardly anything in them. “It's...”

 

“Because if you wanted, you could always just chill out in my room.” Cas looks up at him, eyes wide in surprise. “I mean, I'm not in there a whole lot, so if you wanted to, I dunno, read a book or whatever, you uh. You can.”

 

Dean tightens his grip around his armful of old, stinky t-shirts. He wishes he could just _shut up_ so he can go stick his head in the ground and never resurface, but his mouth ain't listening. “And since it already smells like me you don't have to go taking my stuff to make it more cozy or homey or anything. What d'you say?”

 

Cas tilts his head, confused. “But it's your room.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You're asking me to share your room with you.”

 

There's something stuck in his throat. He swallows thickly around it. “Yeah, Cas. I am.”

 

Cas stares at him. Dean can see the gears turning behind the blue, the cataloging of this apparently unprecedented invitation as Cas calculates a response. It makes him suddenly aware of how close they're standing; a foot at most between them, the bundle of shirts an anchor pinning the two of them together, stable. One of Cas's eyes is slightly bloodshot as if he's been rubbing it, and there's a fresh swell of pink across the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, where he's caught the sun. It's captivating. Exhilarating. It makes Dean realize, with a thrill that quivers hot around his heart, that this sensation – the electric force of Cas's presence, like the heavy anticipation of the air between lightning strike and thunder – was never because of what Cas was. It's still here, cloying yet enticing as incense, even with Cas's wings clipped and his Grace taken from him. He realizes, watching Cas's eyelashes brush his cheek in a blink, that this sensation isn't a result of anything celestial. It's just how Cas makes him _feel._

 

As this finally clicks into place, a corresponding spark settles in Cas's gaze, and he smiles; melted and gentle, but a real smile nonetheless, with cheeks wrinkling, teeth showing, gums. “I'd like that,” he says.

 

It's infectious; Dean can't help his grin, or the blood flushing warmly through his ears and cheeks. “Good,” he says, nodding to himself. “Good. And you can keep these, if you want.” He pushes the bundle of shirts into Cas's arms. “I've got another one, y'know. My old Metallica shirt – that's, uh, 'well-loved', if you wanna have that one too.”

 

Cas smiles but he declines, and he ushers Dean out of the room shortly after, closing the door between them with a quiet click of the latch. Dean stands in the corridor for a long while, beaming to himself like an idiot. Cas shooing him out like that, self-conscious, almost _bashful_ , isn't a rejection. He knows it's not; after all, Cas still has his shirts. Something happened just now, in the time between when Dean entered Cas's room and when he left; something he can't quite define fell into place between the two of them, and it has Dean's heart thudding a drum solo against the insides of his ribs, prickling drunk and giddy through his veins to the tips of his fingers.

 

He lies awake for hours that night, heart and mind racing each other in circles. He thinks about his friend in the room down the hall, wrapped in sheets, in shirts that smell like him, and wonders if Cas is holding them to himself, is consoled by them; wonders if Cas is thinking of him, too.

 

The next morning, when he gets back from his shower, there's a pile of freshly-laundered, neatly-folded old t-shirts sitting on his bed. He smiles to himself as he puts them away, and he's still smiling when he goes into his room that afternoon to find Cas snoring gently, arm looped possessively around Dean's pillow, an old Letters ledger splayed open and abandoned at his side.

Dean closes the door quietly behind him and lets his friend rest.

 

\---

 

A few weeks later Cas spends a day languishing on Dean's bed, translating an old Hebrew text. He returns there after dinner, and though Dean spends all evening waiting for him to leave, he never does. He simply gathers his papers to the floor, pulls off his pants, his shirt, his socks, moves under the covers and promptly falls asleep, as if he's done so every night for years. Dean is so transfixed, so caught in fragile, fluttering, agonizing hope, that it takes easing himself into bed and curling carefully against Cas's side for him to notice that the little shit stole his only pillow.

 

\---

 

(It takes them a while to figure everything out; these things are difficult at the best of times, and rebuilt bridges will always bear the scars of their predecessors. But at some point another pillow joins the first. Stones and leaves, an empty nest, snail shells, appear amongst the stakes and knives and bags of salt on the shelf behind the headboard. On the desk, a vase of lavender flowers gets placed reverently next to Mary's picture. And when Dean's shirts go missing again, as they occasionally do, he can just look to his side to find the culprit, snug in soft, stolen cotton and sleeping sound. And he can kiss him good morning.

 

Cas made his decision, and – through the chaos and confusion and pain of their lives, the full range of global angelic disaster to arguments over the breakfast coffee – from then on, that is where he chooses to stay.)

 

 


End file.
